What caused us to live hidden? / A wound, the wind, a word, a parent.

The dream, suddenly waking up in surprise Crashes into the fate like a rock

A spring evening. A large room in an old house.

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Happy as something unimportant and free as a thing unimportant.

After Kazakhstan declared its independence, the Kazakhstani government started the process of constructing its national identity by making attempts to revitalize the Kazakh language and culture.

Against the burly air I strode, Crying the miracles of God.

When I was reading a book in a bookstore in 1992, I came across the words of a foreign critic: "O. Paz's poetry starts from the end of P. Neruda's poetry."

As lonely I stand / As an old shaman s tomb that all men avoid – / Such is the truth, and truth leaves my soul void…

Workmen lift high / The beams of the roof, / Hymenaeus!

Wind disperses the foliage. The dimness of old bulbs in these / sorry quarters, whose motto’s “The mirror will please,”

Marbles, buttons, thimbles, dice, / pins, stamps, and glass beads: / tales of time.

STATELY, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

And then went down to the ship, / Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and

In the river lie soaked pita bread, colouring material, mud and trash / As I look at the river

To read Eliot, for me, is to feel the presence of the abyss;

The Moose / From narrow provinces / of fish and bread and tea, / home of the long tides

As you set out for Ithaka / hope the voyage is a long one, / full of adventure, full of discovery.

When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, / And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

here’s a bluebird in my heart that / wants to get out

What had you been thinking about, the face studiously bloodied, heaven blotted region

Seven free-verse hymns with a refrain, each hymn describing a new stage of Creation, of Man, of Day....

In poetry, content and form are essentially the same things. They are interwoven in the realm of imagination.

The night isn’t dark; the world is dark. Stay with me a little longer.